


Venus Fly Trap

by elicitillicit



Series: Assorted Drabbles and Shorts [6]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 10 points if you can spot the Legally Blonde reference, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-29
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 23:58:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4897252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elicitillicit/pseuds/elicitillicit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Pansy Parkinson is pissed.</p><p>Not the kind of 'oh ok have an ice cream it will all go away halfway through an episode of Bunheads' sort of pissed.</p><p>No.</p><p>It’s the 'jesusfuckingchrist I will legit cut you open and set fire to your spleen if you dare to even fucking smile at me' sort of pissed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Venus Fly Trap

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt shared by pureblocds on tumblr:  
> ‘What the fuck are you doing it’s midnight why are you playing ‘My Heart Will Go On’ on the piano’.  
> Alternatively, ‘I’m going to lean out the window and sing along until you fucking stop and wonder who else is singing’ AU

Pansy Parkinson is _pissed_.

Not the kind of _oh ok have an ice cream it will all go away halfway through an episode of Bunheads_ sort of pissed.

No.

It’s the _jesusfuckingchrist I will legit cut you open and set fire to your spleen if you dare to even fucking smile at me_ sort of pissed.

If you make the mistake of asking _why, Pansy darling? Why are you angry enough to commit murder with your own, bare, beautifully manicured hands?_ , she will, after gutting you and charring your internal organs, tell you that:

  1. She’d woken up that morning with a _massive_ zit on her forehead;
  2. Her roommate had eaten the last of her hummus and hadn’t bothered to replace the tub before going on an overseas assignment;
  3. The clothing line that had booked her roommate for their campaign had informed her that they’d _hit (their) black girl quota, sorry honey;_
  4. It’s midnight and she has a casting call at eight tomorrow and she needs her beauty sleep _but it isn’t fucking happening, because-_
  5. The _fucking asshole_ in the apartment below hers is playing _My Heart Will Go On_ on the piano, loudly and _badly_.



Pansy _tries_. She tries burying her head in her pillow to drown out the hard thunk of piano keys being struck too hard. When it doesn’t work, she steals her roommate’s pillow. When that doesn’t work, she sticks her earphones in her ears and listens to the sound of crashing waves – but that just brings the _Titanic_ to mind.

It’s a disaster.

Eventually, she cracks.

Pansy throws the duvet off, stalks to her bedroom window, wrenches it open, and shrieks, completely off-key and entirely furiously:

“ _Near, far, wherever you are, I will fucking find you and kill you fucking dead I swear so fucking shut the fucking hell up!”_

The soaring chorus is immediately truncated. Still seething but marginally soothed, Pansy slams the window shut so hard that one of her roommate’s potted cacti topples off the ledge.

_Thank-fucking-god._

She flops back onto her bed and waits for sleep to sneak up on her like her aunt Walburga’s heart attack.

She is almost nodding off when her doorbell rings.

She throws her arms over her head and asks herself _why_ she didn’t just stay in fucking California with her parents and go to CULA and major in fashion merchandising like her father had suggested instead of flying out to New York to become the next Tyra Banks.

The doorbell rings again.

Pansy leaps up, still cursing herself for her bad life decisions, stomps over to the front door, and throws it open. “ _What_ the _fuck?”_

The boy on the other side takes an actual step back.

They stare each other for a moment – she sizing him up (barely sixteen, a couple of inches shorter, skinny as _fuck,_ god, someone get him a cheeseburger, cute in a nervous sort of way), and he looking like he’s flat-out hunting for both courage and his vocal chords.

“Um,” he squeaks, and she takes immense satisfaction from the fact that his voice actually cracks. “I’m- I’m Colin. Colin Creevey. From downstairs. Um. I- I’m sorry that I disturbed your night. It was very inconsiderate of me. I just came over to apologise. Yes.”

Pansy wants to stay angry, she _really does._ But this Colin-child looks so fucking _earnest_ and honestly, while it is incredibly stupid to ring someone’s doorbell to apologise for being a noisy dick when all the other person wants to do is _sleep uninterrupted_ , she has to admire his sense of… decency? To apologise? Not a lot of people in Pansy’s life mean it when they say sorry. This is actually really nice. 

She sighs and rubs at her eyes. “Look. Colin. Baby. I just have to be up really early tomorrow, and you’re fucking with that. Thanks for coming up. Get piano lessons.” 

His eyes are wide and green and glued to her face. “Okay. I’m sorry. And you’re pretty.”

Pansy doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but she does feel warmly flattered. “Thanks. You’re a gem. Good _night_ , Colin.”

He nods, still looking anxious, and she closes the door in his face before stumbling back to bed. _God. Finally._

* * *

In the morning, she almost trips over a bouquet right outside her door. Instead of a card, there is a little ziplock bag filled to the brim with earplugs.

Pansy Parkinson laughs, genuinely and incredulously, puts the flowers in a vase, and tucks the ziplock bag into her bedside drawer.


End file.
